An Evening Outing

Coffee. Congeniality. Random passersby to objectify. It’s a good way to spend the evening. I meet up with a few friends for coffee or beer regularly. You could call it a girls’ night out, but some of us are men. The idea’s the same, though: good food, drinks, lots of bullshitting, laughing confessions of embarrassing thoughts and deeds. Very rarely do all us get together at the same time, even more rarely do we stay together the whole night. Our group will part and split, then meet up again later. Some of us will pick up others we’ve met or ask along new friends more often than not. In short, we’re a small, mobile party.

Newcomers are always a little surprised at how candid and crude I can be. Not that some of my friends aren’t as raw, but I believe in telling it like it is. The other night we descended on a groovy little coffee house in Hollywood after dinner. With a bar and grill next door and some open shops to browse through, it was a perfect place to settle in for the rest of the evening: something for everyone. We got our drinks and grabbed a table out front. Soon we were all chatting with a couple of guys who were hanging out at a table next to us. We bandied about humorous tales of sexual encounters we’d experienced, nothing malicious, just slightly embarrassing. You know how it goes: “…and when he unzipped his jeans, I saw this satiny purple sock thing on his dick with tiny happy faces all over it. And really long hair peeking out around the edges of his bikini line like a, a corona. Straight hair. I was dying!” Or how about this one? “She took her shirt off but she wouldn’t let me touch her tits. I just thought she was shy, but then she tried to kinda hide while she was taking it off and balls of toilet paper fell out—and some keys! And a packet of soy sauce!” Maybe some are exaggerations, but they’re always funny as hell, and who really cares, right? Sex is a great topic practically any time.

I thought I’d chime in with what I’d thought was a funny chronicle from a while back. I’d met a girl at a night club called the Factory. The club basically sucks, so we’d ditched our friends and found a cozy and sleazy little bar in Weho (West Hollywood). Being drunk and horny, I had my hands all over this girl and had managed to wrangle her panties off. Quite a feat since we were sharing one side of a tiny, cramped booth with very little room to maneuver. She had her back turned to the room, blocking me and my roving hands from casual view. I was really getting into it, and her, almost roughing her up. I could tell she was close to coming, her back was arched, she kept biting her bottom lip and moaning lowly. I picked up the speed, thrusting my fingers into her while she rocked back and forth more and more vigorously. Just as she orgasmed, she rocked back a bit too far. I grabbed for her frantically and managed to grasp her ankle. For one long moment we were frozen in shock while the details of our position sunk in. One of my hands was holding her panties, the other holding up one of her legs. She was flat on her back in the middle of the aisle, legs spread, the skirt of her dress pooled around her waist—in the very fucking middle of a group of people making their way to the bar. Talk about embarrassing! I finished the tale with a flourish and self-deprecatingly joined in the laughter. One of our new friends choked on his coffee.

“My girlfriend told me a story just like that,” he finally managed around the coffee streaming from his nose.

“Oh, that probably wasn’t her,” I assured him. “This was a busty redheaded flight attendant.” Proud that I’d managed to bag the stereotypical hottie, I didn’t notice how flustered he was.

“That’s my girlfriend,” was his loud and belligerent response. “You’re not a guy!” Oops.

“Shh. Don’t tell anyone that. It’s a secret,” I quipped automatically. This wasn’t the first time I’d been accused of not being male, in spite of the fact that I definitely look like a woman.

He glared at me, unamused. Damn. I had just outed his chick and he was probably one of those you-can-be-gay-but-not-around-me kinds of people. An embarrassed silence descended around us. I grimaced, not sure of what else I should say. I wasn’t about to apologize for being bisexual, but, if he was right, I had just told a mortifying story about his girlfriend. Doh. I was of half a mind to let him say something first, even if it was probable that he’d try to verbally blast me. I just knew it was going to be some tirade about sneaky women-stealing lesbians, and how can men possibly compete, it’s so unfair. Nice guys always finish last. Blah, blah, blah. I’d heard it all before, I was prepared. I met his eyes squarely, and opened my mouth to tell him off first.

“So would you be into a threesome?” he asked.

I should have known.


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